My time in Purgatory was drawing to an end. There were a few more sins that needed to be addressed before moving on to the interview stage. I didn’t know whether God and Satan would speak with me at the same time or in separate meetings. Once completed, a decision would be made about my final destination. I hoped God wasn’t the only one who made that determination. Having that much power was far greater than any one person should possess.

In order to attain the necessary holiness for exiting Purgatory, my soul had to be purified; that much I knew. But what then? Heaven? I wasn’t certain whether that was my preferred destination. It seemed a bit stuffy. I guessed it was the type of place where the furniture was covered with a form fitted, plastic sheathing that was never allowed to be sat upon. One could look at and admire it, but that was all.

The longer I considered abdicating the remainder of my purgatorial obligations, the clearer it became that I didn’t want to spend the entirety of my afterlife in the hellish camps of eternal damnation. Residing in Hell with the sinners might be more fun, but that would grow monotonous. It would be like hanging out with practical jokers who never realized that, at some point, enough was enough.

A few repentant apologies later, a robed gentleman stepped into my path and introduced himself as a chaperone. His oversized robe dragged behind him like the sweep train of a wedding dress. The upturned hood masked his face in darkness. Tasked with overseeing my progress, he escorted me to an adjoining room. A single folding chair was set up in the middle of the oval room. Positioned directly above the chair hung a spotlight which dangled from the ceiling like a boxing ring announcer’s microphone.

“Sit down.”

Without waiting for a response, my guide stepped to the back of the room. After leaning against the wall, he faded into the shadows, though I could still feel his presence. I sat down and waited. It felt like I was on display, in a viewing booth for unnamed voyeurs. Beads of perspiration were quick to form during the awkward silence that followed.

After an hour of quiet contemplation, I asked for an explanation but received no response. Someone somewhere must have thought this exercise was a good idea. Without clarification or context, though, it seemed like the intended purpose was to waste my time. It was a realization that made me curious which master my chaperone worked for.

Right before I nodded off from boredom, the chaperone emerged from the shadows. Standing silent with outstretched hands, he offered a bowl containing a dark colored, gelatinous substance.

“An offering,” he explained.

“What is it?”

“Dove jello.”

“Why would you do that to a bird?” I asked.

“Most people ask how, not why.”

Refusing to accept the bowl, I stood and walked out, despite the chaperone’s insistence that I wasn’t allowed to leave. Upon my departure, both God and Satan stepped from the darkness and converged at the center of the room.

Scratching His head, Satan asked, “How DO you make dove jello?”

“It’s an old family recipe,” God explained.